he added a jar of jam. It was everything I liked, which was everything my mother liked, which was likely why it was what I liked. Which of us was he trying to please? Did it matter?
“Impressive,” I said and, feeling light-headed, sampled the eggs. When I realized that the other two were watching me, I pretended to gag.
To Margaret, Edward said, “There’s one gone. More eggs for us.”
I smiled. “Nope. It’s good. Eat up, Mom. You need fattening.” And that raised an issue that went beyond osteoporosis. Fattening wouldn’t happen in one meal. She needed someone here to make it happen. Edward and I had left Devon on a few minutes’ notice. We weren’t even prepared to stay overnight. I had to go back. I would. No way could Shanahan deny this. If necessary, I would take it to court.
First, though, I needed to know what the typical recuperation from a broken hip was. But Mom had started to eat—hungrily, in fact—and I was suddenly famished myself. So we ate. She didn’t ask about my life or about what Edward was doing in Devon, and she made no mention of Liam. It should have been awkward, but wasn’t. We were in the same room. That was enough.
After a bit, I put down my fork. “How does a hip repair work? You get the stitches out on Tuesday, but what comes after that?”
She had either been lost in thought or simply too focused on eating to keep track of her surroundings. Swallowing, she set aside her fork and wiped her mouth with her napkin.
“Rest and PT,” she finally said, and, to Edward, “Thank you. This is very good.”
“How often is PT?” I asked.
“As often as I want. It’s about flexibility. And strength.” But she was looking at Edward again. “It isn’t only the hair. You look rougher.”
“Less slick?” Edward said and slid me a smug grin.
“He’s become an innkeeper,” I told my mother.
“A what?”
“Innkeeper,” said Edward.
“Crunchy is the look,” I said.
“Crunchy,” Margaret repeated. She certainly knew the meaning of the word beyond the texture of cookies. When I was in college, crunchy was the only word Dad used to describe my friends. He had done it repeatedly, and not by way of flattery.
Lest my mother head in that direction, I steered her back. “How often do you see the doctor?”
She reached for the jam with her good hand. “After the stiches come out? I don’t know.”
Of course, she didn’t. Uber wouldn’t sit with her, making sure she asked the right questions and remembered the answers. Apparently not even Annika did, though I suspected my mother wouldn’t allow that.
She needed me.
Feeling emboldened, I said, “How long is the recuperation?”
“Three months, give or take.”
“With pain?”
“No. The pain is less each day. I’m about done with those pills. Tylenol will do.”
“Can you get out? Go places?” I was thinking about church, and about all of those friends who might take her to lunch.
“I am not going anywhere with that walker,” she declared. “As soon as I can, I’ll use a cane.”
“What’s happening with work?” I asked. It seemed a normal follow-up to using a cane. If The Buttered Scone was my mother’s baby, she would be in a rush to get back—unless what Annika said about her losing interest was true.
She shifted, then settled again. “Work is fine.” Lifting her fork, she resumed eating without looking at me. I wondered if Annika was right.
I glanced at the laptop. “Who’s been posting on Facebook?”
“Me. I only missed a day.”
“Who runs the bakery?”
“Annika Allen,” she said and reached for jam. “She’s very good.”
I waited for her to say something about Annika that might reveal either her knowledge of the Annika-Liam connection or of Annika having called me. When she did neither, I took the coward’s route and let it go.
“Is there anything you’re not allowed to do?” I asked.
“Run,” she said. Edward snickered. She shot him an uneasy glance before adding, “Lift anything more than five pounds.”
“Climb stairs?”
“I can if I want.”
“Do the stairs make you nervous?” They were the scene of the crime, so to speak.
“Some.” Her eyes rose, her voice vehement. “And don’t suggest a stair lift. I am not old, for Christ’s sake.”
That took me by surprise, not the stair-lift part but the swearing part. It wasn’t like Margaret to take the Lord’s name in vain. But she was glaring at me, daring me to argue. And she was, in fact, looking more, with each passing minute, like the mother I knew.